


Machine

by parvalupa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, M/M, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pre Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:42:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parvalupa/pseuds/parvalupa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is always right.<br/>I am a machine. And in a way he is a mechanic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Machine

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the characters. I just borrow them, play with them, and put them back on the shelf when I'm done.

"You machine!"  
That is John. No need for euphemisms. Always straight forward. He never sugar-coats anything for me, and he doesn't have to. No one ever does, except Mycroft maybe. And I would not want anyone to do it. I do not see the necessity of euphemisms that other people seem to feel. Euphemisms are just sentimental, and therefore unhelpful. They do not get anyone anywhere. They are useless. Pointless.  
John always gives me the truth, but usually it is different than this. He is not focused on my short-comings. He doesn't desperately look for things to point out that would make me look less than I am. Because that is what people normally do: they are offended by what I do and what I am. They cannot stand the truth I am telling them, so they fire back, even if I haven't been rude to them at all. Even if I am simply revealing to them what they were too blind to see. (Yes, that does happen. I am not always rude to people, and actually only to those I cannot stand, which goes for most people I must admit.)  
Only few people ever bother to tell me things that are also true. John is one of them, and he is also the one who matters most. Because he says out loud what everyone else is just too proud to admit: that I am brilliant. That I am cleverer than all of them together. That I am extraordinary. Not that I need any confirmation of that. It is part of my arrogant personality to tell myself that every day. And I like pretending that I don't care that nobody else would admit it.  
But then I met John, and things became different. He never hesitates to acknowledge that what I do is far from being ordinary, and that I am a genius (because he is right there - that is what I am), and he does it without the bitter taste of envy.  
And John is always right.  
I am a machine. And in a way he is a mechanic. I don't mean that kind of mechanic that puts people back together, sets broken bones and mends wounded skin. That is his profession, but that is not what I mean.  
He has become _my_ mechanic. He knows exactly the ways in which I function and in which i don't. He knows which screws to turn and when, and he knows when my machinery needs some more oil so my parts stop creaking.  
Sometimes he fixes me, fixes me with his honesty and straightforwardness. And with his trust. Because nobody except John knows that even machines have feelings, that even machines can get hurt. I consider the few feelings and emotions I have my greatest weakness. John says they are what makes people human. Even me.  
And now he is calling me a machine.  
He is right, in a way, but he is also wrong. He is right that I am a machine. My body functions according to my will. Most of the time I have absolute control over it, over what it needs and when. John knows that, and yet he is always concerned that I might push myself too far some time, because he sees the human being, and as a doctor he knows the risks I am exposing myself to and what it takes to go as far as I go. Frequently.  
But he is also wrong. He is wrong because he has, for the time being, forgotten all that he knows about me. He has lost his trust in me, his belief that I am not a monster, not a selfish, arrogant automaton who does not have any respect for other people's concerns and feelings. He is wrong because I want him to be wrong. He has to be wrong so everything else can be set right. I hate it when people are wrong, and I hate it even more when John is (except when his errors are useful and put me and my deductions on the right track). Usually. But this time I need him to be wrong, just for a while. He will doubt himself later, and he will most likely reproach himself for what he just said to me. I hate it, because it was me who made him say it, made him think it, made him believe that I was not what he saw in me. I need him to be wrong so I can make things right.  
I'm sorry for what I am about to do to him. I'm sorry that I am going to tell the biggest lie that he has probably ever been told. But I need him to believe it.  
I am sorry that I cannot give him the truth that he deserves.


End file.
